


Of Thorns

by incandescent (lmeden)



Category: Frankenstein (1931)
Genre: Gen, Second Person, Yes Really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/incandescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five people who meet the monster once, and one who meets him twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> I was idly watching _Frankenstein_ on TCM last night while I read "Secret Window, Secret Garden", and was seized by the urge to write about Frankenstein's monster. I may have been influenced by the novel in my conception of the monster, but it's been years since I read _Frankenstein_ , so I can't be sure. Anyway, here we are.
> 
> The people that he meets are, respectively: Victor Frankenstein, Fritz, Dr. Waldman, Maria, Elizabeth Lavenza, and Victor once again.

His eyes fill with hope when he sees you, an emotion that even you can recognize. His heart pounds as he reaches towards you. _Sit up_ , he says, and you do. The world swims around you, shadows writhing and twisting. Your hands feel numb and foreign – not yours. 

Muscles bunching and twisting within, you turn to look at him. Your body acts a second after you command it to, as if it has forgotten how to live. You have forgotten, too; you no longer know your name, though it seems as if you once had one. Somewhere deep within, you are glad to be nameless. 

His eyes widen, and his hands reach out towards you, twitching with bright emotion. How strange, that your own hands feel like dull, leaden blocks when you move to take his grasp. You slide forward, and your feet shift beneath you to take you weight. 

Your stomach clenches. Something is wrong, very wrong. But he looks so happy; his face is angular but open, shining with joy and pleasure, and you are the center of it. It is _you_ that he loves, _you_ who has brought such joy. 

For the moment, that pushes away all fears of darker things. 

He moves away, and you follow. How can he be so far from you, so quickly?  
It seems that the world is slipping away. Have you been ill? You feel divorced from reality, held at a distance from your own body and emotions. Everything around you is thick, like the stew that mother used to brew.

What stew?

The memory slips away as easily as if it had never been, and you watch him move a lever. Above, something shifts, loud screeching that draws your chin up without your willing it. You may not be curious yet, but your body is. 

It is beautiful.

As the shadows were deep and everlasting below your feet, what lies up above is surely the most pure of all heavenly lights. It is the fleeting glance of God upon the earth, the end of all rainbows. Your hands reach up and you feel him near you.

He is pleased, but something is wrong. Something within him is turning to displeasure, the joy within him rotting away as he watches you. 

You cannot bear him mind, though, as your own is filled with the splendor that dances just out of your reach. Yes, it is beautiful. 

It brings your heart a peace that you haven’t known in ages, that you can’t remember except as a flash of dark hair in the wind. 

That is when a cacophony enters, a rending, jarring creature that stinks of heat and death and destruction, of rotted flesh tearing itself from the bone and the clench of old teeth around wood and the dissolution of your joy; you scream, then, and your senses explode into a white, blinding light.

-

He is not the same. He does not look upon you with joy but with revulsion. You think that this must be because he is a monstrous creature, hunched and bitter, and he senses something similar in you. 

There is something the matter with you; that much, you know. You are something terrible. You brought joy to the first man who saw you, but this second one is repulsed by you. 

He sneers, eyes wide and his tiny heart fluttering in his chest. He steps forward and you watch his fingers twitch around his torch. You recognize it, now, that creature of destruction and death that he carries with him: fire. He is nasty, a rat of a man, you can tell. He is base instincts, and hatred, and disgust. You open your mouth, but nothing slips out but a groan, so you stop trying to talk. 

It is painful to realize how much has happened to you, how much you have deteriorated. And there are still so many gaps, so much left unknown. 

Your hands fist and a thrill runs through you at their response. It is the first sign of improvement. You may yet recover. 

The rat steps forward, hunched back twisting his steps. You flinch, an impulsive movement that nonetheless pleases you. 

He should be helping you, pushing you towards recovery. He should not taunt you, send bright flares of light toward your delicate eyes. It hurts. How can he despise someone so ill, so pathetic? It can only be that you are misshapen, a destroyed wreck of a man who evokes no pity. 

The rat’s claws scrabble against the stone floor. There is nowhere for you to go – nowhere to retreat. You push the rat away and he stumbles, turning and slipping, then lunging back. The fire on his torch flares and gutters as he thrusts it forward. His teeth are sharp and rotten, flaring in the light, and you snarl back. 

A rat will not terrify you; you are a _man_ , no matter how you have deteriorated, no matter how they despise you. You reach forward, batting the fire away though it sends revulsion slipping through you and panic setting its claws into your thoughts. 

You seize the rat and he twists beneath you, panting. He is so small, so weak. Have you always been so strong?

The rat gasps and you feel a savage pride at having mastered him. The torch lies on the floor, weak and ineffective, just an object after all, and you realize that you are recovering. This is what it means to be a man, to be strong. 

You feel your lips draw apart in a grimace and your fingers tighten.

The door in the wall bursts open. You let the rat fall and lunge, legs and arms and heart working as one – for once, for once – and there you see the man who first loved you. There is a darkness in his eyes, now, a shadow beneath his frown. You cannot check yourself, cannot stop. 

They turn from you, fleeing. You stumble through the door and then they are back, arms out and cautious. Something within you cracks, the sound of hope breaking, and you realize that they will never, that _he_ will never love you again. You are a monster, and you pause, just long enough to look down upon your hands – too big, too blocky – and the stitching which knots skin to skin and your stomach turns and they are upon you once more. 

His hands seize you – they are soft, slim and strong – and you mourn your own death, because something sharp is jabbing into your side and slipping upwards through your blood into your mind. The world twists around you, thickens as if turning to water, and you sag, placing your weight upon him, the man who loved you. 

Then he releases you and you fall, hard, to the floor.

-

This time, it is a hawk. He peers down at you from above, eyes sharp behind his glass and hair white upon his head. You want to squirm beneath his gaze, and know what it is to be truly hunted. 

The hawk draws back as he meets your gaze and you thrust your arms out, grasping him. You shall not give in to this creature; you shall master it. If he will not help you, then you will not spare him. 

Your hands are stronger, fiercer. You sit, pushing the hawk in front of you and his eyes fly wide, pulse fluttering under your grip on his neck. He is weak, this creature. He does not hate you, revile you; all his eyes hold is cold calculation and hunger. He would spread you upon this table you sit on, you realize, pull your insides outward and weave them into a garbled tapestry. Your grip tightens, and the man struggles.

You watch him for a moment longer, feeling the hard sensation of hate settling into your heart, and wait for the hawk’s heartbeat to slow, slow. 

-

You run.

-

The reeds are sharp on your palms – where once you could feel almost nothing, now you feel everything, and more. The edges of the long leaves leave phantom scars across your palms as you push through them, drawn towards the comforting sound of moving water. 

The light is all around you now; it is not the terrible, gnawing heat of fire but instead the deathless, beautiful light of the sun. It warms your skin and forces your eyelids low. You feel refreshed, born again in a way. While those you left behind would not help you, the sun has done what they refused to do, and you are buoyed, lifted high.

There is another sound nearby, aside from the rush and ripple of water. It is a voice, small and piercing in your ears. You push through the last of the reeds cautiously, and find her. She is small, with dark ringlets that tumble off her shoulders, and her lips part with surprise as she turns to look at you. 

_Who are you?_ she asks you, and her voice is nothing but curious. 

She does not hate you, you see. She is no creature other than human, just a little girl. You open your mouth to answer her, give your name, but find you can’t remember it. Nothing comes out, again, and you flush at your incompetence. It’s shaming, and horrible, but this little girl doesn’t seem to notice. 

_My name is Maria_ , she says, and you smile at her. No other has given you their name. Not even he. She reaches up and takes your hand, her delicate fingers tickling along your palm, and pulls you towards the edge of the water. 

She shows you the flowers that she has been playing with, and demonstrates throwing them into the water. You smile to see how each one floats, turning its bright face up to the sky no matter how it lands. Such a simple game, she has devised, and yet a pleasing one. 

It is soothing to your soul, and you feel something within you begin to unwind. There are no rats here, or hawks, or any who hate you. There is only this lovely girl, this princess in her own castle. 

You bend and she hands you a few of her flowers. They are lovely and soft, and even from here, you can smell their delicate scent. They have been picked, and are dying, but so are all things. These are closer to life than much of what you have seen recently. 

You toss them into the current one by one, with Maria at your side, and feel a smile spread across your lips. You body still feel wrong, off and strange, but at least _you_ are happy. 

The last flower falls into the water with a soft splash and floats away, drawn by the current to places unknown. You watch it go. Must this game end, like all things? You straighten stiffly. Maria turns her curious gaze up towards you and you remember in a flash; there was another girl, even smaller than this one, who had laughed as you’d spun her in your arms. She had been so beautiful.

Who was she?

You reach for Maria and she turns into your grasp, eyes wide and innocent. She is delicate in your over-large hands as you lift her up. You step towards the water, but she does not laugh, does not smile; she turns, twisting to see the water, and begins pushing against your grasp. You can _feel_ her heart begin to pound.

She will laugh, you know. You can make her laugh like that long-lost girl, and as Maria struggles you find that her expression has grown dull, replaced by that of the other girl, the laughing girl. You toss her up and she shrieks with laughter, and you smile at her. 

It is only when you do not feel her in your arms once again that you realize she has fallen. You blink the haze from your thoughts and slide your feet (still clumsy, acutely clumsy) to the edge of the water. There she is, reaching up towards you and sliding under the water, coughing. She is so far from you.

You are struck, down to the center of your being. The girl – Maria, she is not the one that hovers in your mind – is sinking under the water. You reach for her, but your arms are not long enough. You feel ungainly, unbalanced, and your body shies away from the dark water below. 

Maria sinks, her splashes stilling and falling silent. 

You wait for her, for her bright eyes and smile and laugh, but when she comes up once again she is still, and her hair spreads limply around her. Her dress pulls her feet down below the water. 

_They were inhuman in their lack of compassion_ , your thoughts whisper as you gaze at her and sadness fills you. _You were the best of them all_. The words never make it past your thoughts, though, and you turn from the scene of your destruction. 

Behind you, the sound of the water and rustle of reeds reminds you of decay.

-

You have not forgotten what beauty looks like; it is only that beauty seems to have left you behind, abandoned you like most of its whims. You have been wandering for some time when you find the house, lit from within by that terrible creature of death and destruction that sears your eyes. Yet you are drawn forward by the promise of life within, by a fascination with this place that is grand beyond your every imagining. 

You creep close, newly receptive senses feeling the shift of rocks beneath your toes before they slide out from under you. You ascend the hill steadily, stiffening with each step under the weight of that terrible light, until you can peer inside.

She stands there, perfect and slim. Who could she be? Her wedding gown clings to her figure and her veil falls across the entire room to touch the door. She is beautiful, and you want to put your hands upon her.

But they are not your hands, are they?

You glance down at the foreign appendages sewn to your arms – to _someone’s_ arms – and sickness curls through you. What happened to make you this way? You must have been more than ill; perhaps you were injured?

As the disquiet within you grows, you force it away. The answers aren’t here, you know that much. It will drive you mad to think of it any more.

You look up once more, to her, and she looks back at you. Her face is drawn and pale, her frame rigid with fear, and you realize that she has seen you. 

She draws back, and her mouth is open. There is no hatred there, no revulsion, only terror. You push forward, push the window aside and glass shatters around you, and you reach for her. You must silence her; stop the high shriek that is beginning to fall from her lips. 

She pulls away, breathing wild and veil flying, and runs towards the door. This body may not be your own, but it is large, and it is fast now that you have had some experience working with it; you catch up to the woman quickly. Nimbly she slips until your grasp and runs, letting out a high scream as she darts across the room. 

It pierces and halts you, and you watch as she backs towards the bed near the wall, trembling. She screams again, and you hear footsteps against the wood of the floor above you. Many footsteps. You shrink and move back, away from the woman.

They will know that you were here. The hawks and rats will find you, peck at your bones and gnaw at your flesh, and cage you. You turn back towards the window and find that it has been shattered, the wood ripped from the frame in your haste to get inside, and you for the first time a word sneaks into your mind from the depths of your soul.

You look at the destruction that you have caused and name yourself, softly: _Monster_.

-

You run.

-

The fires dance below you, gathering into small groups and then splitting apart once more, and you know that they are coming for you. You could run farther, but to where?

So you wait. It does not take long for him to find you. 

He carries a torch in his hand, holding it high as he pauses before you. You fight the urge to flinch away from the fire, and he does not press closer. The ache of having him so near gnaws at your senses. 

His eyes are dark and shadowed, so you cannot see what secrets they hold. You do no need to see, though. You know already that he despises you – that you have failed him in some strange way.

You stand and move forward, and the angles of his face deepen. He does not shrink away, and you give him credit for this much. Nothing else, though, for he abandoned you.

You reach for him, and though he fights, he cannot hope to get away from you. 

-

At the top of the hill is a tall building, dark inside and filthy with shadows. You carry him with you as you step inside. He is limp in your arms. 

Inside, you see a stairway twisting up the walls of the building, tall and winding. You see no other place to go, and so begin to climb, bringing him with you. He is light in your arms, and as you pass a thin window, you pause to peer outside. 

The fires are gathering. They have found you. You continue to climb. 

You stop only when there are no more steps before you and nowhere else to go. Below, a cry rings out, and the fires surge close to the base of the building. You flinch back, flinging up a hand and allowing him to slip down to the floor. The heat of death is upon you, and creeping closer. 

He groans. You glance down and watch him push himself up, crane his head to peer at you. You do not know what he sees, but you can imagine – your face lit by the light of death, that flickering creature that devours all. You must appear mad, or a monster. Probably both. 

His eyes are dark and his heart pounds hard, and you can see now that his gaze contains only despair. The hope that brought you to life and gave you such joy is gone. It has been crushed; you are not sure when or how, but you believe you may have been the one who did the killing. 

You reach down, and lift him up. _I am yours,_ you wish to say, _so why cannot you love me?_ He struggles, and you realize how useless this is. He would not listen, even if you had the words to express yourself. Those below will never listen.

You shove him backwards, away, and at the last second he reaches for you; too late, for in the next instant he drops backwards over the edge of the roof and vanishes, and a thousand screams rise from below. 

This is the end, then. You have crowned yourself _monster_ with the circlet that they wove, and you can do no less than live up to your obligations.

You step forward to see the crowd, and are confronted with the vision of death clinging to the sides of the building, a cacophony of heat and despair and destruction moving towards you, leaping across rotted boards and hungry, always hungry.

You reach out. The stitches at your wrist glow in the wild light. You are falling apart at the seams, now. The heat of the fire is intense, and turns your stomach inside out. As it grows closer, you cry out. 

Then flinch back, as you can bear no more. There are cheers below, as they rejoice in your pain. You move away from them, unable to bear their voracious gazes any longer. 

The fire comes up through the floorboards, devouring and nipping at you, and you cry out, your voice bursting free of its confines for the first time.

_This is not my body_ , you tell yourself. This body is not mine.

It does not stop the pain.

You are right, though, for the whole world seems foreign around you. You do not belong to it. And yet you are wrong, for this is who you are, who you have chosen to be, and they will remember you for it. 

-

You run.


End file.
